


Weep, But Not All of Your Tears

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [9]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, M/M, Romance, Space Battles, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8035636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: The Edifice pursues an unknown and elusive foe, tangles with the Colterons, and Helios and Selene learn firsthand the difference between the simulacra and the real.





	Weep, But Not All of Your Tears

**Author's Note:**

> From Kahlil Gibran's _The Prophet_ : "On Love":  
> "But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,  
> Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,  
> Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears."
> 
> The entire poem is well-worth looking up, as is the whole book with the author-poet's own lovely artwork. I chose this verse in particular because . . . it seemed to encapsulate something of my own thought-processes as I decided to send Selene and Helios into combat on a mission which has a very low probability of survival: the _Derelict_ and my own non-canonical forays are one thing, but what they're heading into is something else entirely. And while it's tempting to just keep writing little romantic vignettes, the Colterons are a constant presence in the comic, a looming shadow in the game, and I knew I needed, eventually, to bring them into the picture.
> 
> Speaking of pictures, the embedded art's by me. It doesn't really have any significance being here except that my finishing it seeped into writing up this story. It could have lived in any of the others, I suppose. :)
> 
> I also hereby take the opportunity to apologize for my inability to write action-sequences, especially space-battle-things. I might edit this later, or something. Oddly, I watched "The Sky Crawlers" for inspiration: it's a fantastic movie, and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4QBQzNI94MY) is a wonderful AMV which encapsulates pretty much all the aerial combat scenes (though it's the story itself which makes the movie great).
> 
> And: a chance for Helios to use some terms of endearment! I actually did some thinking here (which is rare). "Afon" is a Welsh name, after all, although (interestingly) Valentina uses the Russian diminutive ("Afonika") when addressing him in his nightmare during SF:E. So then I got to thinking about the implications of him coming from a Welsh and Russian household—perhaps he heard a bit of both languages? Given the preference among Fighters for Russian (or at least, those that we've seen), he defaults to that, but I decided that in this particular moment with Selene, he would switch to Welsh, perhaps because he has softer memories of it. So! "Tyrd yma, cariad": "Come here, love."
> 
> Also, Helios' wondering about why Praxis was never given a prosthesis (instead of a patch) is something I've wondered myself. As someone who had their right eye removed when they were nine, it's an interesting question: I had to wear a patch while the socket healed, with a clear conformer in place to help the muscles of the socket keep their shape—but after that I got a lovely prosthesis and haven't needed a patch since. Honestly, I'm probably overthinking it, and it's just an aesthetic choice on HamletMachine's part—since eye-patches are pretty badass, after all! ;)
> 
> Any thoughts/comments/reviews/suggestions as you might be moved to share are deeply appreciated. I do hope you enjoy! <3

 

_I should have kissed him again._

_(Don't say one last time.)_

* * *

The _Edifice_ thrummed, the tremors and the sound familiar—almost soothing-songs, if it weren't for the void, for the stars, for the enemy nestled somewhere in the deepness, in the dark. The radar was silent, at least for the moment; the friendly triangular blips which represented the _Tiberius_ and _Ragnarök_ —but not just the ships—the men—crowded the base of Helios' console-screen.

"Ethos." Selene's voice suddenly cut across the headsets, carried in fitful bursts between the triad of Starfighters. "Ethos, I'm sorry."

Helios blinked, half-tempted to twist around, to catch a glimpse of his Navigator that he'd never get: mere longing didn't justify the risk to try. His job, after all, was to keep an eye out for their enemies—and if he failed in that—all the firepower at his fingertips, all his Navigator's skill, wouldn't be enough.

"Don't be." The linguist's tone was somehow bright. "I promise you, Selene, when I said that it was fine—I meant it. I really did. I do."

Confused static from Bjorn and Sigyn. "What?"

"It's nothing." Praxis now, decidedly terse—with good enough reason to be, given how his last run-in with the Colterons turned out. "Cut the chatter, all of you."

Selene's breathing caught for a moment on the exhale.

Helios toggled back to their frequency alone. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let him get to you, Selene."

"It's not that, Afon."

* * *

  _What is it, then?_

* * *

 The radar whined before a muffled curse, a cry, tore against their ears and somewhere, somewhere just beyond his sight, Helios caught the trailing edges of a flash of light, a burst of flame.

"What the _fuck_ —" Praxis stumbled on the words for a moment. "Shit. _Edifice_ , they're gone."

"I know." Helios didn't waste time staring at the radar, or at least not the empty pixelated space (which was to say nothing of the real) where the _Ragnarök_ had been. "Three ships on my radar. Do you see them?"

"Yeah. Fuck. I can't get a fix—"

"Ethos." Selene again—Selene in a steady, steady voice which helped offset the Fighters' growled, terse exchange. "Ethos, don't get yourselves caught up in this."

"But—the Colterons are still in the neutral zone. Selene, we're all supposed to go after these three—Hayden never said to split."

The Starfighters, in turn, began a savage, almost chaotic waltz: each Navigator saw the three, each knew they were a target, each knew that those ships and whoever flew them were almost too fast to catch—or dodge.

"You'll . . . Please. I know these ships. Ethos, please, just go. Keep tabs on the 'Terons. I know that you can handle them if they cross over—"

"Don't fuck with us." Helios gave a fitful start—never had he heard Praxis sound like this. "Selene, you can't take them on yourself. And don't fucking presume that we'd be fine against three 'Terons! We stick _together_ , do you understand?"

And it was more than he could bear.

"Don't ever fucking underestimate my Navigator! If he says—"

"Are you both _insane_?" Ethos, then, dear Ethos, the sole voice of reason now. "This isn't the time! We just lost the _Ragnarök_. Selene, as long as the 'Terons are in the neutral zone, I'm not going to worry about them. I'm going to worry about you two and these three—these three awful—"

Selene's breath was hard, was fast; Helios could almost feel him shake his head, exasperated, frightened; the _Edifice_ shot forward, rolled, pulled a hair-pin turn to dance after the first of three in offense. Helios then understood: their fear for Praxis and Ethos couldn't ultimately interfere with this, with the mission, with the same orders issued to them all: neutralize or somehow apprehend these ships, responsible for so much carnage and loss of civilian life.

Or, more succinctly still:

_Our best chance of getting home is to take them out ourselves. Whatever the_ Tiberius _might do—we can't waste our time with arguing—_

A hard, hard turn, that phrase, but true—or so Helios promised to himself—

"They'll be okay." Selene wasn't really talking to his Fighter. "They'll be okay."

"Just us, Selene. Just like the sim . . . Us and them. It's right, it's right, we've got this."

But the VR sim had been free from death, had had but a single aim, to drop _one_ ship: this was three, and there were no screens to flash to bright and heatless, unreal flames. Helios shook his head, forcing himself not to overthink it, to accept it—both—as real.

His hands relaxed against the weapons-throttle.

Selene was quiet: they didn't need to speak: with the silence, save the thrumming of the ship, he set himself to find the _Edifice_ 's rhythm once again.

* * *

The chase dragged on, the pilots of the three rogue ships and his own Navigator too well-matched for anyone to get within striking distance: if Helios had a fix on a ship ahead of them, for just a moment, another came up from behind and Selene had to fling the _Edifice_ away in sharp, sharp snaps, hurtling them from weapons-range before he could get away any shot worth the effort.

The Fighter wondered briefly if whatever weapons as had been used against the _Swift_ , as had been recreated in the sim, were different now—or far more deadly.

And truth it was that his hands began to ache, his throat to run dry, his body to murmur its fatigue: four standard hours of hyper-vigilance took their toll, and he couldn't imagine what it was like for Selene—defensive reactions and offensive countermoves in an endless, vicious turn—

He didn't like it, not at all: he could hear the desperation beginning to creep into the Navigator's haggard breath.

* * *

And then the ship before them—just out of their missile-range—burst into a single, silent flame.

"Still don't think you need us?" Praxis—a gentler—weary—soft-voiced Praxis.

Selene blinked aching, sand-stung eyes, willing the console-lights before him not to blur and grow useless with the tears he couldn't afford to shed.

* * *

"Think we can each take one? The odds are even now."

Ethos nodded, realizing after a moment that Selene couldn't see. He'd never, in all his life, been so tired as he was now. "Yeah. Praxis? You ready? We'll take the one at—"

But coordinates were useless: the ships were too damn quick.

"We'll follow your lead," Praxis interjected. "We've got you, _Edifice._ "

* * *

"Likewise, _Tiberius._ " Helios shifted in the harness, settling himself for the final run—God, he hoped the final run. "Selene?"

Just their frequency, then, the labored staccato of their breathing, the swill of blood in their ears to keep time with the raw-acrid-twisting of their guts that left bile spiking at their throats.

Then: "Always, Afon."

* * *

_Always?_

_Always is like a never, like a promise, like something you can't afford to lie._

* * *

And just like that, the Colterons crossed into Alliance space.

The two-of-three remaining ships, the rogues, the unidentified, unknown, skipped away into the darkness, until it was two Starfighters against the vessels of the Colterons', quickly bearing down. Back on the _Kepler_ , Hayden, Keeler, Encke all had a sudden, sickening sinking revelation, watching the radars, monitoring the clandestine cameras peering out from the Navigators' consoles—best to keep an eye on them, after all—not that it would do much good, except for posterity, for the instruction of recruits, for future training—

But it seemed foolish, now—or worse—as if they were seeing something not meant to be seen—

"They're exhausted," Keeler whispered. Ethos, deathly pale, looked on the verge of collapse; Selene's face was sweat-streaked, grim; his hands shook uncontrollably. Keeler himself felt a pull of empathy: he knew those symptoms well but that was why he rarely flew a Starfighter these days—but to see Selene and Ethos—

Encke bowed his head; he knew that Helios and Praxis must have realized it by now. "And it was a Goddamn trap."

Hayden pursed his lips, saying nothing, knowing nothing worth saying anyway, at all.

* * *

Pain.

It was a novelty, at first—thing he noticed only from a distance, when the ship fought him for a moment—for the first time—when his breathing hitched involuntarily into his lungs, when the console's keys were suddenly smeared red with what seemed like someone else's blood. His body was almost too tired to take note of the searing splinters that dug into his flesh, wounds that at once bled and burned, were almost cauterized by the scalding heat—but soon his weary brain caught up with his nerves.

And then he had no choice, none, but to bite back against the involuntary cry—lest he alarm his Fighter even more—and battle to stay conscious, because he _had_ to, because his Afon might be able to dock the _Edifice_ but he wouldn't be able to maneuver out of this alone.

* * *

The sounds of wrenching metal reached his ears, the actual blast of an explosion lost to the muted maw of space. Helios felt the _Edifice_ 's engines catch, heard them whine, heard them fight: he felt the ship begin to rattle—but for all that—they were still alive—the hull wasn't breached—but—

"Fuck—Selene—how bad—?"

". . . just stay with me, Afon . . ."

The Fighter caught his breath. The Navigator's voice—a reed, a whisper—and then nothing more than little whimpers, cries escaped through gritted teeth—but still the _Edifice_ danced a macabre waltz—the engines caught again, deliberately now, as the Starfighter flung itself up, slung back, let the Colteron vessel slip by below until the Fighter's radar gleamed in glaring red—with a savage yell he laid a finger on the trigger, loosed a mass of indigo-streaked lightning—

Until only the darkness, and the ship—Helios, Selene—remained.

* * *

_OhshitohfuckohGodohno—_

* * *

"Selene!"

Nothing. Nothing. At least—not a word—but if the Navigator didn't waste his strength on speech, God, he still _flew_ —the radar's warning-whistle drew the Fighter back—the second of the Colterons' destroyers—and again the silent death—

_Praxis, Ethos, you better have the third—_

* * *

_Stay with_ me, _you understand?_

* * *

" _Edifice,_ this is the _Kepler._ _Tiberius_ has neutralized the last of the Colteron ships. Come home."

* * *

"Give me auxiliary control. Selene. Selene, damn it, I can—"

But the Navigator shook his head, hoping the invisible gesture would carry, hoping the _Edifice_ would hold because that structural integrity reading wasn't looking good. He didn't even know why he felt like _he_ needed to be the one—but there it was—because he had to keep his Afon safe, and this was the only way to satisfy himself of that—to have it be by his own hand—

* * *

The _Tiberius_ reached the _Kepler_ first: Praxis and Ethos, if exhausted, seemed unharmed; the Starfighter was still in good shape. But the _Edifice_ , arriving moments later, was a smoking, battered mess: that the ship had stayed together seemed like what was once decreed a miracle.

The MO immediately began to shimmy up to the Navigator's niche; Encke jumped up on the wing to help Helios, who could barely stand, who let himself be carried until they were on the ground. It was a nauseous mess—the lights, the bodies—faces swimming in and out of view—his head was fire—God, and somewhere was Selene—somewhere—but where—

Encke held him steady as he doubled over to vomit little more than bile.

"Helios—he'll be okay. Come on, kid. Come on, I've got you."

_I can't—Encke—fuck—I can't—_

"Just come with me. We're _all_ going to Med Bay. Come on. You'll see him soon."

* * *

"Theotokos!" Ethos whispered, reaching wearily for Praxis across the great divide between their beds. "We're alive."

The Fighter squeezed his hand—said nothing, though, because only two of three returned—but God, was he so glad that his dear, sweet Ethos was still here. And in his way, by living, by his Navigator's life, he mourned not only Sigyn and Bjorn but still, but still, Logos—

"I meant it. What I said to Selene. It's okay, Praxis. I—you're friends. You understand each other. It's okay."

"Ethos. Ethos. . . . Please. I just can't—not now—"

"But I want you to know—!"

Grunting, Praxis swung his legs over the bed, leaned over to kiss his anxious Navigator softly. "Shh. It's okay. I know. And so does Selene."

"He'll be—?"

"Yeah. Before you woke up, I heard the MO tell Helios that he's fine. I think he was mostly exhausted—the injuries weren't too bad, all things considered . . ."

Ethos stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling tears slip slowly down from the corners of his eyes into strands of flyaway hair that Praxis brushed back with a gentle hand. "Thank God."

* * *

_The_ Edifice _jumped beneath him,_ fought _, every warning siren he could think of singing him a savage song: Selene's hands were steady at the console but his mind quickly realized that no amount of skill could guarantee their lives. Another barrage of fire rocked them: he knew where the ship was—it was a risk to stay in weapons-range much longer—what was his Fighter waiting for?_

_"Afon—"_

_Long-past task-names now, even here, even on a mission and the open frequency._

_"Afon?"_

_Silence,_ silence _from the Fighter while all around them the_ Edifice _shivered and whined and barely held itself together. From somewhere else entirely, in a voice so far removed that it didn't seem human in the slightest—it was Hayden, he supposed—"_ Edifice _, retreat. Your life support—"_

_"Sir, I think—Helios—he's hurt—"_

_The name was sharp on his tongue, was wrong, was not what he'd meant to say but what regulation bound him to._

_"Get back to the_ Kepler. _Now! You have no defensive capabilities: your Fighter's dead—"_

* * *

"Selene? Selene! I need you to be calm. You're in—"

Slender limbs struggled against the stronger hands that held him; more than one needle was dislodged from his arms, the bandages were like raw flame, the skin grafts sloughing loose—but none of it registered—none of it mattered—not even the MO, no-nonsense, restraining him and fixing him in the depths of that cerulean gaze while his voice washed over the Navigator's ears like water.

It meant _nothing._

"Dead! He's _dead_! You son of a bitch, why'd you let me—oh, God, oh, God, he's dead—"

* * *

Helios, pulled under by such exhaustion that he couldn't fight, stirred.

Restlessly plucking the IV from his arm, he forced unwilling limbs to bear his weight, to stand, to stumble towards the one who was screaming—God, was _screaming_ as if his heart would break—

* * *

_But I'm not dead, Selene. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here._

* * *

The MO glanced up with a sardonic, tight-lipped smile. "I don't even care that you're out of bed right now. Please—come here—let him see you—"

A wordless cry of rage, of grief: the Navigator, drawing on some hidden strength, somehow fought free of the medic's arms—flung himself over the bed, staggering, wide-and-wild-eyed—

"Hey!" Helios dodged forward, reaching out, reaching to catch that beautiful head, that slender form, before it hit the ground when his knees began to buckle. "Hey—hey—Selene—Selene, it's me—it's me—"

But the words didn't seem to register, and only then did the Fighter realize why: once before Selene had thought he'd lost him. Now his fevered and pain-suppressant-riddled brain had given him that truth, and so strong it was that reality couldn't yet dispel it—

"Tyrd yma, cariad—Selene—shh—I'm here—"

Helios, knowing not what else to do, wrapped his arms around the Navigator, tightly, tightly, hoping that he wasn't hurting him.

Slowly, slowly then Selene, strength spent, relaxed; slowly those grey eyes grew clear and unclouded; he still wept openly against the Fighter's shoulder but Helios could hear him whispering, so faintly, "It's you—it's you—Afon—my love."

* * *

The four of them kept a vigil that night: the med-tech on call was a soft and reassuring presence but made no move to interfere as Praxis and Ethos shifted beds and made to settle in beside Helios, Selene. The IV stands, the fluid drips, all seemed like eerie trees, like watchers, like guardians around them: for a long, long time they didn't speak.

"Sigyn and Bjorn."

Selene was the first; his voice was low, was raw, still splintered from his wild grief.

And that was it—just names—just the silence and the emptiness again—the space between their bodies and the words just like it was before—the sudden disappearance from their radars—and the flash of light—and the worse, far worse _real_ absence—the moment when they were, when they were not—

Praxis trembled suddenly; in an almost savage gesture he pulled the patch from his ruined eye and wept—silently—both cheeks gleaming-wet in the Med Bay's runner lights because the tear-ducts still remained in that empty socket. Helios vaguely wondered why the Fighter hadn't been crafted a prosthesis.

"Fucking hell," Praxis choked at last.

And it was Selene to sit up, wincing—Selene to reach out a comforting hand—not Ethos—it _couldn't_ be Ethos—and Helios saw such tenderness there in the gesture that whatever tendencies towards jealousy or shame as usually snapped at his mind were quickly gone. Ethos turned to him—not away from Praxis and Selene per se but toward Helios in full—his round face sharply shadowed in the light. There was an open understanding there, between the two of them—

Then Selene reached for Helios' hand—Praxis, then, for Ethos—and they sat there, leaned against each other, slept there, until the _Kepler_ 's day-shift lights came on. The MO was not at all surprised to see them thus—the respective Fighter/Navigator pairs tangled together, a mess of gowns and limbs, and yet each one of four among them invisibly bound just as strongly to the rest.

* * *

"Why'd you circle back for us?"

Their steps were slow; Fighters and Navigators moving past them, on their way from the mess hall to training or the bridge, gave them a wide, wide berth and sidelong looks. Selene didn't like it; he leaned into Helios, breathing in the scent of him, trying fitfully not to scratch at the pseudo-skin and bandages and ignore the fact that suddenly no one could look them in the eyes.

Ethos and Praxis walked the hall's opposite side, as if it were a river cut between them. The Fighter still hadn't refastened the eye-patch: it hung in his hand like a dead thing. Helios wondered if he'd ever wear it again, or let the whole _Kepler_ see the socket with its protective conformer (which did nothing to hide the flesh beneath)—that they would be reminded of just what it was they were in the midst of. What there was to lose—and far worse than an eye—

"Hayden sent us back," the linguist offered finally. "We—we did patrol the border for a while, but then he saw you tangling with those rogue ships and asked us what the hell we were thinking, since catching them was technically our first priority. Uhm."

"I'm sorry that you took the fall for that," Selene muttered. "It . . . I just . . . You two. We couldn't lose you two on top of Sigyn and Bjorn."

Helios saw Praxis set his jaw and squeezed the Navigator's hand. "It's done," he whispered. "Just leave it, Selene."

"That's a risk, anytime you climb into a Starfighter," Praxis answered slowly. "Figure that out, would you? Both of you. You could have gotten us all killed—do you know that? Your Navigator isn't always right and your Fighter can't land every shot. Get over it. Accept it. Own your mortality, your sins, your _honor_ to be in the _Edifice._ "

"Praxis—" Encke paused a moment. "Praxis, let's—let's just—"

The Fighter turned once as Ethos led him off, catching Helios and Selene crosswise in a ravaged gaze. "Last night we mourned our dead, and I'm glad for that. I am. But you two need to fucking realize that one of you might never make it back. I sure as fuck won't die because you can't see what really—"

"Praxis!" Ethos again, a warning cry. "Praxis, let it go."

A shuddering breath and then Praxis turned on a reluctant heel, following the stocky figure of the Navigator: but for the tension in his words, every line of his body spoke of only sorrow.


End file.
